


Soaraway Sun

by scarletjuliet



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Newspapers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-29 23:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17817659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletjuliet/pseuds/scarletjuliet
Summary: John feels himself swaying again, and tries to find balance once more. The thing is, and he thinks this with something dark and hollow opening inside of him, it’s goddamn believable. The notion of Roger having an exhibitionist fuck around with shimmering, blonde Debbie Leng—it isn’t fucking crazy to John, no matter how many milk cartons they may empty together.A headline about Roger's leaked sex tape catches John's eye, and, for a horrible moment, he believes it might be true.





	Soaraway Sun

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing a sequel to Off to the Races for _actual_ weeks but I tapped this out in a few hours... excuse errors or general shittiness (as I was up writing this at 4am like a dumbass). I just have too many John/Roger feelings and got reminded of the ol' rumour about Roger's sex tape...
> 
> Title inspired by the lyric in Roger's 'Dear Mr Murdoch', of course.

…

 

John doesn’t really take in the headline when he reads it the first time. Oh, it makes him stop short, just purchased milk carton in hand (because, in a pinch, yes he will make the trip down to the dairy alone for emergency groceries, provided the potential for recognition is low). He’s just about to cross the road when he sees and he’s still, staring, for so long that it’s the next car rumbling past that startles him out of his trance. Deciding what he’s seen requires closer inspection, he turns away from the kerb and makes his way towards the newsstand, a copy of _The Sun_ in his sights.

 

**STAR'S SEX VIDEO IS STOLEN**

 

But that isn’t the part that has really interested John. It’s the smaller print underneath, underlined for emphasis, to the side of a photo that is really the part of the page that causes his whole body to grow cold.

 

**Queen drummer in kinky games with Flake girl**

 

His heart is hammering as, even without checking if anyone is around to see, he shakily lifts the paper from its spot. The image is of one Deborah Leng, young and blonde and shiny and grinning. She has never bothered John in the slightest, but now the sight of her, small under the gigantic black blocks of letters, is nauseating. Beside her is Roger in sunglasses and blue jeans—John’s Roger, the very Roger probably still in their bed as John stands out here facing the icy morning. His fingers are numb as he grips the paper in one hand.

 

Outside he knows he’s maintaining a veneer of collectedness. Inside he is scrambling madly through the print, catching only disjointed phrases and surfacing, gasping for air each time one punches him hard enough to make bile rise in his throat.

 

_ROCK star Roger Taylor—explicit home movie—enjoying nights of kinky passion—EXCLUSIVE—Debbie seductively strips—making love on their leopardskin covered bed—_

 

He’s teetering when he finally rips his gaze from the page. The world around him, the real world, seems very still now he’s resurfaced from the storm of text. The hand gripping the milk has gone particularly numb, and John finds himself staring at the carton for a while. His breathing is steadying.

 

There must be, of course, a rational explanation. There are few people on the planet who know that Deborah isn’t really romantically or sexually involved with Roger at all. She’s a convenient cover for the fact it is John who is really sliding under the covers next to him each night, sexing him in the mornings. Buying him milk from a quiet old Thursley dairy even when there’s frost on the grass. Deborah isn’t in the picture whatsoever.

 

Or maybe, thinks John, tasting bile again, he’s one of the few people on the planet who doesn’t know she _is_.

 

There’s a video, after all. They’ve described it, right here in print. They wouldn’t make that up. They _couldn’t_ make that up, surely. John feels himself swaying again, and tries to find balance once more. The thing is, and he thinks this with something dark and hollow opening inside of him, it’s goddamn believable. The notion of Roger having an exhibitionist fuck around with shimmering, blonde Debbie Leng—it isn’t fucking crazy to John, no matter how many milk cartons they may empty together.

 

He glances over the article again, and this time every word passes through him and lands in his stomach, heavy like stones. A few fall into the ever-expanding hollow within him, tumbling forever and ever. Silently, he turns to look out at the countryside, at the bristling morning, stealing away so quickly it’s almost as if the universe doesn’t realise John’s entire life is caving in right there, outside the dairy clutching a copy of _The Sun_.

 

John pays for the paper and leaves before he can no longer stand not throwing up in the gutter.

 

…

 

When Roger enters the kitchen, John is stirring a spoonful of sugar into his coffee, facing the window. He can hear Roger stopping—probably stretching—and then his voice, rasping “good morning” as he makes his way over to the coffee pot adjacent to John.

 

John, uncharacteristically, doesn’t reply. He’s actually a little bit surprised Roger picks up on this so quickly. He hears the other man put down the pot without pouring anything and the shuffle of him turning to face John. John keeps his gaze carefully locked on some point in the garden, methodically stirring despite the sugar being well dissolved by now.

 

“Deaky?”

 

John’s heartbeat picks up speed, and so does his stirring, slightly. The paper is on the island counter. He waits for Roger to spot it.

 

Roger moves towards John, touching his shoulder gently, “Is everything all right, John?”

 

John doesn’t flinch at the contact or anything, but he does remain unresponsive. He lowers his gaze after a few silent seconds pass and takes his bottom lip between his teeth.

 

He can almost feel the exact moment Roger spots the paper. It’s like the air has shifted. The couple of footsteps towards the island counter make John feel light-headed with tension, horrible anticipation. The several seconds of total quiet make him stop stirring, spoon scraping half the perimeter of mug, unaided, from the whirlpool of coffee. He grips the edge of the counter and returns his gaze to the window once more.

 

“What the _fuck_ is this?”

 

The volume of Roger’s voice increases with each spat syllable. John rips his stare from the window and whips around when he hears the sound of tearing paper. Roger’s face is practically red as he rips _The Sun_ in half, lengthways and then again sideways—clumsily, as his hands are shaking. When it has been thoroughly torn, Roger gestures towards John with it fisted in one hand. “Fuck! Why—you—did you buy this?”

 

John doesn’t reply as Roger turns without waiting for a response and, hands still trembling, kicks a nearby chair. It clatters to the ground on the other side of the kitchen, the bits of newspaper going flying.

 

“Fuck! Fuck, John.” Roger heaves, turning back to face him.

 

John takes several deep breaths, and in a voice so small he’s never heard it before, says “So it’s, it’s not true?”

 

Roger stares at him, eyes blown wide with incredulity. “Christ, John, of fucking course not,” he breathes, pressing the heel of his hand onto one eye, before his body shakes with humourless laughter, “Fuck. Deaks. We don’t have a fucking leopardskin on our bed.”

 

Almost immediately, John feels a needle-like pain in the back of his eyes and he can’t help the way his body suddenly crumples. His frame shudders with what he realises are silent sobs. He turns around to lean against the counter when he spots Roger moving towards him, deeply ashamed. Feels himself crumple further, eyes squeezing shut, when Roger presses the length of his body against John’s back, wrapping limbs that are still shaking slightly around his folded middle.

 

“John, love, none of it’s true. It’s just a bunch of tabloid _bullshit_.”

 

John, not of his own volition, makes a noise for the first time—a long, low whine—and, frustrated, swipes a hand across his wet eyes. Roger pulls him closer and gently rubs his hands up and down John’s torso.

 

“ _The Sun_? Really, Deaks? You must know what a fucking joke of a publication that is.”

 

John bites his lip, hard, screws his eyes shut again. He hadn’t known. He doesn’t read or pay any mind to tabloids, usually. He feels calloused hands on his upper arms and hears Roger’s softest voice.

 

“Deaky, can you look at me?”

 

John allows himself to be swivelled around, sniffing and reaching up to desperately wipe away the tear tracks. Roger gently cups John’s face in his hands, eyes flickering softly over John’s features, pupils large and round because he’s _in love_ with John, how could John have ever thought that—

 

“What… made you think I would do something like that, John?”

 

At those words, John absolutely collapses into Roger arms, the emotional trauma he’s put himself through all morning finally falling to press its full weight on him. He manages to keep the tears at bay but he’s so fucking shaky he’s almost worried he’ll tremble right out of Roger’s arms. Roger holds him tight, impossibly secure, but his voice is hurt when he says, “You know I’d never… do you think I’d… are you worried I’ll cheat you, Deaks?”

 

Responding is the last thing John thinks he can make himself do right now. He is mortified that Roger, Roger who has just had his name slandered with ludicrous falsities in the press, Roger who has just had his life hideously misrepresented for the whole world to see, is the same Roger that is trying to deal with _John’s_ concerns right now. John, who has just _bought into_ the tabloid ramblings, _believed_ the ugly words about his whorishness. John pulls back to take in Roger’s expression. His face is twisted with upset. _God, he must feel so alone._

 

“I’m sorry,” cracks John, after taking several deep breaths.

 

It’s a good while before Roger responds, inhaling shakily and absently letting one hand crawl into the neck of his robe. “Fuck. I, I get it. I get why you’d believe something like that. I’m… I’ve just always acted like that sort of person. I can’t blame you for thinking that that’s me.”

 

“Rog, no,” John says quickly, heart aching. “I _know_ that’s not you. Or I should know. It’s not your fault.”

 

There is silence. Roger is staring at the floor and John is beginning to feel ill again. Slowly, so Roger has plenty of time to stop John if he wants to, he moves forward to tentatively snake his arms around Roger. To his relief, Roger lets him, leaning into the embrace and placing his arms about John’s waist.

 

“I’m so sorry, Rog.” says John, hoping every bit of guilt and regret he feels is seeping into the words.

 

Roger buries his face deeper into John’s shoulder, and after a few moments, says, muffled: “On the bright side, nobody could possibly think I’m fucking the bassist now.”

 

John feels sick to the absolute pit of his stomach, because he knows Roger isn’t even wrong. He pulls away wordlessly, still gripping onto Roger’s shoulders. Then, he repeats, “I am so sorry. I should have never suspected it was true.”

 

“So why did you?”

 

John quivers slightly. Lets his hands drop to his sides. He knows he owes Roger the truth. “Because newspapers have a perceivable reliability they don’t deserve,” he says. This isn’t all, and he can tell Roger knows so, is waiting for more. Taking a deep breath, “Uhm. And because sometimes I forget why you, love me. Me and not someone like Debbie Leng.”

 

Roger exhales loudly but it’s not a sigh, just the release of a breath he had been holding. “John—” he begins.

 

“But that’s not your fault,” John adds quickly, because he knows it would be emotionally manipulative to not. “I just… I need to. Remember.”

 

Eventually, Roger begins to nod, slowly. He takes a step forward and grasps John’s chin in one hand, forces him to stare into the bright blue storming under furrowed brows. It’s almost as if he’s trying to telepathically instil something in John, force him to remember. After perhaps half a minute he breaks the stare to lean forward and capture John’s lips with his.

 

John’s breath hitches just slightly in surprise, and he pulls Roger up against him, palm steady against the expanse of Roger’s back. The other cards through the blond mess when the kiss deepens lazily, their tongues barely grazing in a way that makes John shiver just like it did the very first time.

 

When they finally part, Roger makes sure they still stand with their noses bumping, breaths combining in the little space between their mouths. John closes his eyes again. They both find words tricky sometimes, and when this happens it is collision, merging twin rhythms, folding in on each other until their heartbeats align, that says everything they cannot.

 

John isn’t sure everything has been fixed. But they’ve patched and filled the hollow inside him, the fridge has been restocked with milk, and _The Sun_ is in pieces on the kitchen floor.

 

…

**Author's Note:**

> ??? I'm sorry if this sucks thanks for reading!!
> 
> (P.S. I'm sorry I didn't reply to comments on Off to the Races, by the time I decided I wanted to I felt it was too late ahhhhh but thanks if anyone who commented is reading this?? Ily and I appreciate it!)


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